The exception that proves the rule. A blog of short writings from Australia and England.

Wednesday, 8 March 2017

Chicken Soup

You and your photos of your grotesque looking dinners. Food devoid of smell and desire is just a trash pile of colour and pre-digested, pre-fecal gloop. We met that night, dressed up in our rented tights, dressed up to the nines and took photos on your stoop. Your grandfather cried, his crest fell as he laid down the camera and his smile began to droop. "What once was mine I've left behind in the endless self preservation pursuit, when your parents died, I raised their pride and made it well on bowls of chicken soup, but here am I, now left behind on this creaking and lonely stoop. Even if I had no time, no peace in my mind nor strength in my spine, I'd always be there looking out for you."